Lady Susan
“if it had not at that moment occurred to me that his resolution of
going might be occasioned by a conversation in which we had been this
morning engaged, and which had ended very much to his dissatisfaction,
from our not rightly understanding each other’s meaning. This idea
struck me at the moment, and I instantly determined that an accidental
dispute, in which I might probably be as much to blame as himself,
should not deprive you of your brother. If you remember, I left the
room almost immediately. I was resolved to lose no time in clearing up
those mistakes as far as I could. The case was this—Frederica had set
herself violently against marrying Sir James.” “And can your ladyship
wonder that she should?” cried I with some warmth; “Frederica has an
excellent understanding, and Sir James has none.” “I am at least very
far from regretting it, my dear sister,” said she; “on the contrary, I
am grateful for so favourable a sign of my daughter’s sense. Sir James
is certainly below par (his boyish manners make him appear worse); and
had Frederica possessed the penetration and the abilities which I could
have wished in my daughter, or had I even known her to possess as much
as she does, I should not have been anxious for the match.” “It is odd
that you should alone be ignorant of your daughter’s sense!” “Frederica
never does justice to herself; her manners are shy and childish, and
besides she is afraid of me. During her poor father’s life she was a
spoilt child; the severity which it has since been necessary for me to
show has alienated her affection; neither has she any of that
brilliancy of intellect, that genius or vigour of mind which will force
itself forward.” “Say rather that she has been unfortunate in her
education!” “Heaven knows, my dearest Mrs. Vernon, how fully I am aware
of that; but I would wish to forget every circumstance that might throw
blame on the memory of one whose name is sacred with me.” Here she
pretended to cry; I was out of patience with her. “But what,” said I,
“was your ladyship going to tell me about your disagreement with my
brother?” “It originated in an action of my daughter’s, which equally
marks her want of judgment and the unfortunate dread of me I have been
mentioning—she wrote to Mr. De Courcy.” “I know she did; you had
forbidden her speaking to Mr. Vernon or to me on the cause of her
distress; what could she do, therefore, but apply to my brother?” “Good
God!” she exclaimed, “what an opinion you must have of me! Can you
possibly suppose that I was aware of her unhappiness! that it was my
object to make my own child miserable, and that I had forbidden her
speaking to you on the subject from a fear of your interrupting the
diabolical scheme? Do you think me destitute of every honest, every
natural feeling? Am I capable of consigning _her_ to everlasting misery
whose welfare it is my first earthly duty to promote? The idea is
horrible!” “What, then, was your intention when you insisted on her
silence?” “Of what use, my dear sister, could be any application to
you, however the affair might stand? Why should I subject you to
entreaties which I refused to attend to myself? Neither for your sake
nor for hers, nor for my own, could such a thing be desirable. When my
own resolution was taken I could not wish for the interference, however
friendly, of another person. I was mistaken, it is true, but I believed
myself right.” “But what was this mistake to which your ladyship so
often alludes? from whence arose so astonishing a misconception of your
daughter’s feelings? Did you not know that she disliked Sir James?” “I
knew that he was not absolutely the man she would have chosen, but I
was persuaded that her objections to him did not arise from any
perception of his deficiency. You must not question me, however, my
dear sister, too minutely on this point,” continued she, taking me
affectionately by the hand; “I honestly own that there is something to
conceal. Frederica makes me very unhappy! Her applying to Mr. De Courcy
hurt me particularly.” “What is it you mean to infer,” said I, “by this
appearance of mystery? If you think your daughter at all attached to
Reginald, her objecting to Sir James could not less deserve to be
attended to than if the cause of her objecting had been a consciousness
of his folly; and why should your ladyship, at any rate, quarrel with
my brother for an interference which, you must know, it is not in his
nature to refuse when urged in such a manner?”
“His disposition, you know, is warm, and he came to expostulate with
me; his compassion all alive for this ill-used girl, this heroine in
distress! We misunderstood each other: he believed me more to blame
than I really was; I considered his interference less excusable than I
now find it. I have a real regard for him, and was beyond expression
mortified to find it, as I thought, so ill bestowed. We were both warm,
and of course both to blame. His resolution of leaving Churchhill is
consistent with his general eagerness. When I understood his intention,
however, and at the same time began to think that we had been perhaps
equally mistaken in each other’s meaning, I resolved to have an
explanation before it was too late. For any member of your family I
must always feel a degree of affection, and I own it would have
sensibly hurt me if my acquaintance with Mr. De Courcy had ended so
gloomily. I have now only to say further, that as I am convinced of
Frederica’s having a reasonable dislike to Sir James, I shall instantly
inform him that he must give up all hope of her. I reproach myself for
having, even though innocently, made her unhappy on that score. She
shall have all the retribution in my power to make; if she value her
own happiness as much as I do, if she judge wisely, and command herself
as she ought, she may now be easy. Excuse me, my dearest sister, for
thus trespassing on your time, but I owe it to my own character; and
after this explanation I trust I am in no danger of sinking in your
opinion.” I could have said, “Not much, indeed!” but I left her almost
in silence. It was the greatest stretch of forbearance I could
practise. I could not have stopped myself had I begun. Her assurance!
her deceit! but I will not allow myself to dwell on them; they will
strike you sufficiently. My heart sickens within me. As soon as I was
tolerably composed I returned to the parlour. Sir James’s carriage was
at the door, and he, merry as usual, soon afterwards took his leave.
How easily does her ladyship encourage or dismiss a lover! In spite of
this release, Frederica still looks unhappy: still fearful, perhaps, of
her mother’s anger; and though dreading my brother’s departure,
jealous, it may be, of his staying. I see how closely she observes him
and Lady Susan, poor girl! I have now no hope for her. There is not a
chance of her affection being returned. He thinks very differently of
her from what he used to do; he does her some justice, but his
reconciliation with her mother precludes every dearer hope. Prepare, my
dear mother, for the worst! The probability of their marrying is surely
heightened! He is more securely hers than ever. When that wretched
event takes place, Frederica must belong wholly to us. I am thankful
that my last letter will precede this by so little, as every moment
that you can be saved from feeling a joy which leads only to
disappointment is of consequence.
Yours ever, &c.,
CATHERINE VERNON.
XXV
_Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson._
Churchhill.
I call on you, dear Alicia, for congratulations: I am my own self, gay
and triumphant! When I wrote to you the other day I was, in truth, in
high irritation, and with ample cause. Nay, I know not whether I ought
to be quite tranquil now, for I have had more trouble in restoring
peace than I ever intended to submit to—a spirit, too, resulting from a
fancied sense of superior integrity, which is peculiarly insolent! I
shall not easily forgive him, I assure you. He was actually on the
point of leaving Churchhill! I had scarcely concluded my last, when
Wilson brought me word of it. I found, therefore, that something must
be done; for I did not choose to leave my character at the mercy of a
man whose passions are so violent and so revengeful. It would have been
trifling with my reputation to allow of his departing with such an
impression in my disfavour; in this light, condescension was necessary.
I sent Wilson to say that I desired to speak with him before he went;
he came immediately. The angry emotions which had marked every feature
when we last parted were partially subdued. He seemed astonished at the
summons, and looked as if half wishing and half fearing to be softened
by what I might say. If my countenance expressed what I aimed at, it
was composed and dignified; and yet, with a degree of pensiveness which
might convince him that I was not quite happy. “I beg your pardon, sir,
for the liberty I have taken in sending for you,” said I; “but as I
have just learnt your intention of leaving this place to-day, I feel it
my duty to entreat that you will not on my account shorten your visit
here even an hour. I am perfectly aware that after what has passed
between us it would ill suit the feelings of either to remain longer in
the same house: so very great, so total a change from the intimacy of
friendship must render any future intercourse the severest punishment;
and your resolution of quitting Churchhill is undoubtedly in unison
with our situation, and with those lively feelings which I know you to
possess. But, at the same time, it is not for me to suffer such a
sacrifice as it must be to leave relations to whom you are so much
attached, and are so dear. My remaining here cannot give that pleasure
to Mr. and Mrs. Vernon which your society must; and my visit has
already perhaps been too long. My removal, therefore, which must, at
any rate, take place soon, may, with perfect convenience, be hastened;
and I make it my particular request that I may not in any way be
instrumental in separating a family so affectionately attached to each
other. Where I go is of no consequence to anyone; of very little to
myself; but you are of importance to all your connections.” Here I
concluded, and I hope you will be satisfied with my speech. Its effect
on Reginald justifies some portion of vanity, for it was no less
favourable than instantaneous. Oh, how delightful it was to watch the
variations of his countenance while I spoke! to see the struggle
between returning tenderness and the remains of displeasure. There is
something agreeable in feelings so easily worked on; not that I envy
him their possession, nor would, for the world, have such myself; but
they are very convenient when one wishes to influence the passions of
another. And yet this Reginald, whom a very few words from me softened
at once into the utmost submission, and rendered more tractable, more
attached, more devoted than ever, would have left me in the first angry
swelling of his proud heart without deigning to seek an explanation.
Humbled as he now is, I cannot forgive him such an instance of pride,
and am doubtful whether I ought not to punish him by dismissing him at
once after this reconciliation, or by marrying and teazing him for
ever. But these measures are each too violent to be adopted without
some deliberation; at present my thoughts are fluctuating between
various schemes. I have many things to compass: I must punish
Frederica, and pretty severely too, for her application to Reginald; I
must punish him for receiving it so favourably, and for the rest of his
conduct. I must torment my sister-in-law for the insolent triumph of
her look and manner since Sir James has been dismissed; for, in
reconciling Reginald to me, I was not able to save that ill-fated young